


His Girl

by xfandomwritingsx



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Daddy Kink, Dirty Talk, F/M, Fluff, Mutual Pining, Past Buck/Reader Relationship, Self-Hatred, Slightest briefest illusion to choking kink, Smut, post snap
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:41:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24962452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xfandomwritingsx/pseuds/xfandomwritingsx
Summary: You’ve always been Bucky’s girl. But Bucky’s not here anymore…
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Reader
Comments: 5
Kudos: 83





	His Girl

**Author's Note:**

> This took on a mind of its own. I’m sorry. This was supposed to be a one-shot, but as it usually happens with me, I’ve written this part and am just at a standstill. So to boost my motivation, I’m posting what I’ve got. I hope you guys like it. There will be smut in the next part. Just as soon as I write it.

You hate how cliché it is. Really, you do. If you could stop it, you would. If you could stop the ache inside of you yearning for your best friend left in the galaxy and simply go back to the overwhelming sadness, the mourning for your lost boyfriend, you would do it in a heartbeat. Because at least the sadness felt right. It belonged. It was valid. 

The aching flame of desire that’s been building, growing steadily inside of you is not. It’s out of place in this world and it’s just wrong. It feels like betrayal and tastes like bitter poison with the potential to destroy you. 

It’s so damn clichéd to say he’s an addiction, but fuck it if you just can’t bring yourself to leave him behind. You tried once. You stopped answering his calls and his texts. You took a vacation away from everyone, but it felt like a torture just as bad as indulging in what you have to admit is much more than a crush. You’d been back in town less than twenty-four hours before he showed up at your apartment to greet you and just seeing him made you feel light and airy and you knew you were hopeless. So you stopped trying. 

The worst part about all of it? You know he feels the same way about you. For most, knowing the person you want to be with also wants to be with you would be a blessing. Instead, it’s a cruel twist of the knife in the back of the man you love. 

Loved? 

No. Love. _Loves_. There are some days you need to remind yourself. Bucky is gone, but your love is not, cannot, and will not be gone. Which is why the way Steve’s watching you from across the table sends both a blush to your cheeks and drop kick to your gut. 

He’s different now, hardened over the last three years since the snap. Maybe that’s why it’s only now that you’ve drawn such an attraction to him. He had been too soft for you before, too morally white and good. He’d slipped into the role of supportive friend and colleague so easily that there was no room for anything else. And when you grew close to and eventually fell head over heels for Bucky? Any chance of a spark was stomped out. With that Steve at least. But this one? This Steve opened a new door that you aren’t sure can be shut. This Steve is rough around the edges and takes what he wants. This Steve is watching you instead of the holographic conference call you’re on, propping his elbow on his armrest, two fingers resting on his cheek while he gently bites down on the tip of his ring finger and his pinky plays along his bottom lip, all with an absolutely sinful look in his eyes. 

Old Steve never would have done that. 

You struggle to listen to what everyone else is saying. The meeting is boring to say the least, a bi-weekly check in that didn’t really need to be done but everyone participated in our of habit. It’s just you and Steve physically in the room since Natasha had left earlier in the day to travel to a nearby town thatneeded aid. You wonder briefly if the rest of your colleagues notice the way he’s looking at you or the way you shift in your seat across the wide spacing circular table, but you don’t really care. You realize you’re biting your lower lip and his eyes are drawn to where your teeth sink in gently. 

Someone calls your name with the tone of having already called it at least twice and you snap your eyes back up to the blue holograms in front of you. Carol is raising a single eyebrow at you and Rhodey is wearing the smallest smirk. You push down the embarrassment and sit further up in your chair, straightening your back and forcing yourself not to look at Steve who you know is chuckling at your lack of composure. 

“Nothing new to report here,” you say after clearing your throat. “Nat’s on her way now to help some cleanup efforts and nothing major has come up recently. Afraid to say it, but things might actually, finally be cooling down.” You chance a look across the table and Steve has his own eyebrow raised in a much less annoyed way than Carol had. His is teasing, suggestive. Things may have been cooling down for the rest of the world, but boy is it getting hot in this room. 

Fucking clichés again. It sounded ridiculous even in your own cloudy head. 

The call ends quickly after that. One by one all of their images dissolve in front of you and you’re left with no one else to look at except Steve. He removes his hand from his face, _thank god_ , and folds them both into his lap as he casually leans back. 

“Plans this afternoon?” he inquires. You mirror his posture, leaning back in your own chair. 

“I should do those reports,” you groan, letting your head flop backwards onto the edge of the chair’s back. You hear him chuckle lightly before he responds in an apologetic way. 

“You know no one reads them anyways.” You snap your head back to squint your eyes at him. 

“You used to be all about paperwork, you know. What happened to _organization keeps us_ _going like a well-oiled machine_ or whatever it was you spewed at us?” you tease. He cracks a smile. 

“Less people makes keeping up with briefings a lot simpler.” There’s a bitter sadness behind the _look on bright side_ undertone to his words and it threatens to ruin the mood. You tilt your head lazily and push past it. 

“Did you have something else in mind?” You don’t really have many plans today. The place could use a cleaning, but that’s not exactly high up on your want-to-do list. He shrugs and locks your eyes. 

“We haven’t sparred together for a while.” The suggestion sends a cold chill down your spine, a twist in your gut, and a tingling warmth between your legs, all of which leaves you feeling like you might float up out of your seat. He watches you carefully, just like always. Looking and waiting for the rejection, the polite decline on his invite. 

“I’ll meet you in the gym in ten?” You’ve never said no. Like the cliché goes; it’s a fucking addiction. 

Sparring has become your dirty little secret. You’d done it before, sure. But back then it was strict and with purpose and Old Steve corrected your form with precision. Now you only did it when you were alone and it was a whole different game. 

It starts friendly, a light warmup and practice drills both of you could do in your sleep by now. Some friendly banter. A couple of unexpected moves to throw the other off balance. His corrections no longer have that precision they once had. Instead his hands linger on you and he presses a little closer. Your focus has now shifted from besting the great Captain America to instead figuring out if you can get him to pin you down in a way that isn’t completely obvious. 

There’s times it’s slow and drawn out, a lot of dancing around and eyeing each other before a takedown. Other times it’s hard and fast with barely any warning before one of you is on top of the other. Sometimes it gets rough; a shove into a wall or a takedown that knocks your breath out completely. It was rough a lot the first year after The Snap. Neither of you ever willing to admit you needed the pain to fee alive. You’ve moved past that now and the roughness is for the sheer pleasure of it all. 

And then occasionally, when you haven’t been around each other enough and there’s something pent up inside both of you, it gets dirty; innuendos whispered against the shell of an ear, his leg between yours and a slight grind of his hips when he has you against the wall, an _accidental_ slip of your hand up the inside of his thigh. The dirty was rare and taboo, but you couldn’t help but want it more often than you got it. 

No matter the type, at the end of it, you’re always breathing heavily and worn out, a mixture of aching to do it again and feeling completely satisfied coursing through you. You don’t like admitting it’s your version of sex, but it is. And the only reason you’re not slipping your hand into your panties every night after you do it is because you’re just too damn tired. Besides, you do that plenty of other nights. But that, and the overwhelming self-hate that comes with it, is a different story. 

You make quick work of changing into the black leggings, sports bra, and simple tank top you’ve made a habit of keeping in your room at The Haven. The place is your second home and there are some weeks you’re here more than you are your apartment, but you’ve thinned out the wardrobe you keep in an effort to keep yourself from lingering too long. As empty as it has become, the whole building holds an air of depression that’s seeped right into the grey walls. It’s also why you all stopped calling it The Compound and renamed it The Haven. It was a nice attempt to bring a warm feeling back to the place, even if it didn’t always work. 

You’re almost out of your bedroom door when you see the red sweater, _his_ red sweater, resting on the chair in the corner. It gives you pause and that punch of guilt comes crashing over you in a wave. Leaving him in your room to go fuck his best friend. 

_Stop_. 

It’s not what you’re doing. He’s not in your room. He’s gone. _Gone_. And you’re not fucking anyone. 

You slip backwards out the door and watch that sweater until it’s just a sliver between the door and the frame. And then it’s gone, trapped behind a heavy wood door to stop taunting you. You breathe a weighted sigh and pry your hand from the door handle. Steve is waiting for you. 

— 

“Feisty today, aren’t you?” he hisses after your elbow in his ribs puts some space between you. You’ve been at it for a little over twenty minutes. 

“Can’t handle me?” You swipe your arm over your forehead to slick away sweat. “You’re getting slow, old man.” 

“Age jokes?” There’s a smirk on his lips that should have warned you that he was about to make a move, but you’re completely unprepared. “What’s next?” he grunts as he manipulates you to twist your arm behind your back and presses his chest to your shoulder blades. His other hand ghosts around your neck, never doing more than cradling it in his palm. “You gonna start calling me Daddy?” 

Your sharp gasp is audible and there’s not a chance in the entire galaxy that he didn’t feel the way you shuddered and melted back against him. There’s a small chuckle against your hair just behind your ear that confirms it. 

Did he know? Had Bucky told him about your little secret kink that was rarely indulged upon? _Fuck_. Did he know all of your kinks? How much did they share with each other? _Best friends_. 

“Yield?” His voice is clearer, hands already loosening around you in preparation of letting you go. You recognize the tone. Something triggered his own guilt, prompting him to step back. You can let him go or you can keep him close, continue your game and push the boundaries. You want to so badly. 

You hesitate and breath catches in your throat as you fight internally with yourself before finally whispering, “Yield,” back to him. He’s gone in an instant, cold air filling the empty space behind you and you instantly regret it. 

There is no right answer. 

— 

You have a reoccurring dream that’s somewhere between ecstasy and terror. You’re sharing a bed with Steve, in your childhood bedroom for a reason you can never figure out. It’s dark in the room and he’s pressed up behind you, a large hand over your hip and a clear hardness rubbing against your ass. Neither of you speak, but you push back into him, aching to feel that hardness between your legs. 

You grind against each other, soft moans the only sounds you hear. Then it’s not enough and that ache becomes too strong. Clothes are gone, dissolved off your bodies like they were never there as he scoops his arm behind your knees, bringing them to your chest as he sits up. He keeps you on your side as he gets to his knees, one hand on your ass, the other keeping your legs together and towards your chest. He lines himself up and your body is begging him to push inside of you. You bite down on your lip so hard, you swear you could feel the pain of it in the morning when you wake. All you want is for him to press his hips forward and put his dick inside of you. 

He obliges, but slowly. He eases in, just an inch at a time, slowing spreading you open for him and pleasure coursing through you. You moan and grip your pillow tighter. He feels only barely inside of you when there’s a sound outside the door, footsteps of someone coming closer. 

You hope and plead that they won’t enter, but they do. Steve bunches the comforter around his waist, shielding you from the unwanted eyes of the intruder, but stays inside of you. You want the person to go away, want Steve to push all the way inside of you, to fuck you like you’ve been craving, but it doesn’t happen. Steve withdraws and in a fit of anger about the feeling of emptiness between your legs, you sit up and are faced with the betrayal in Bucky’s eyes as he stands at the foot of your bed. 

You don’t remember much after that. Sometimes there is more, but when you wake you can never quite piece together the blurry memories. Sometimes you just wake up right there, unsure if you’re left horny or distraught; your constant inner turmoil. Usually, you kick the covers off yourself to cool your sweaty body and bury your face into your pillow, willing yourself back to sleep. 

— 

You still remember the first time you realized how you felt about Steve. It happened unexpectedly and very suddenly. You’d both been in the study of what once was the Avengers Tower, but now was more of an empty, cursed castle. It was only eight months after The Snap. It didn’t feel like that long. As you both sat there in silence, a record playing softly to fill the void, you looked down into your newly empty glass and just felt defeated. 

A song started and from the very first bar, you recognized it. It was the slow, entrancing voice of Doris Day singing a song that had become very, very dear to your heart. Tears welled up, but you pushed them away with the back of your hand. 

“He used to say that if we ever got married, this was the song he wanted to dance to,” you told Steve, voice surprisingly clear for how you were feeling. He looked up from his own drink. You knew the alcohol didn’t have the same effect on his body as it did you and you weren’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing for him right then. He looked at you apologetically and nodded. 

“I know a thing or two about being owed a dance you’ll never get.” It may not be the same exact situation, but he understood how you felt, how just a song could send you down a path in your mind that hurt so badly. He waited for a moment before downing the rest of his glass and standing up. He walked over to the record player and with a delicate ease, started the song over. Walking over to where you sat with a confused, sad look, he held out his hand. “I’m not Bucky, but I’m not too bad of a dancer.” You couldn’t help but smile at him and his attempt to ease the sorrow. 

“Well I’m not Peggy,” you said, slipping your hand into his. He gave a gentle pull to bring you to your feet. “And I will probably step on your toes,” you joke. It brought a smile to his face wider than you’d seen in a long time and it made you feel truly happy that you’d been the one to put it there. 

The song itself is only about a minute and a half long so he made quick work of placing his hand politely at your hip and holding your hand out to the side, swooping you into a small, slow step. He led with a grace you didn’t quite expect and it was easy to follow him, to get lost in the sway of the simple piano in the song. 

You found yourself leaning in closer, turning your head and pressed your cheek to his shoulder, eyes closed and face practically buried into the comfort of his neck. He laid his head carefully against yours and you suspect he also had closed his eyes to lose himself. You expected yourself to think of nothing but Bucky, to be imagining it was his arms you were in. Instead, you melted into Steve and the only thing you could think of, was how safe you were in his arms. 

You’d leaned heavily on each other in those first few months. Tears, hugs, shoulder bumps, squeezing hands, grounding looks from across the room. Anything and everything to keep your heads above water. He’d always been one of your best friends since the moment he came into your life and now you feared he may have actually been the last person on the planet that you could trust with everything you had. 

As the song faded down, you pulled away from him just enough to look him in the eyes and that’s when it hit you. Like a ton of bricks, as they say. Something came over you and you just wanted to pull him down and kiss him. There was a look you couldn’t quite place in his eyes. They were soft, an internal conflict reflected in them as he glanced down to your lips in a slow blink. His hand closed around yours, a palpable change from the gentlemanly way he had cradled it through the dance. His lips parted a fraction and your stomach started twisting in an anxious sort of pleasure. 

But then a new song came on, something more upbeat and the spell was broken. You both backed away from each other and you thanked him for the dance. You chocked it up to grief and craving safety and familiarity in such desolate and chaotic times. You expected it to fade, to wither away and never come back. 

But all it did was grow. 

— 

You’re sitting in the main office with Steve, work long since forgotten. You’re sitting at what has officially become Nat’s desk, but with her gone on another will-be dead end hunt for Clint, you’ve made yourself comfortable in her chair. Steve sits across from you and though he won’t say it, he’s relieved he’s not in charge anymore. He’s content on the other side of the desk, riding out the storm instead of trying to tame it. 

It’s gotten late, the room growing dark with patches of yellow light from the lamps gently placed around the room. Everyone had silently agreed the overhead lights were too harsh for nighttime. They were too white. Too happy. Too fake. A soft, warming color from the lamps fit the air of night much better. It also helps to shadow your face after you swallow the rest of your drink. Your hair, growing a little longer than usual, provides a curtain that helps to give you courage for the question burning at the tip of your tongue. There’s been flirtations passed between you and the way his eyes roam over your body as you lean back only encourages you. 

“So be honest,” You don’t look at him as you ask, but instead at the empty glass you place on the desk. “Did he tell you?” When he responds with silence, you look up through your lashes to see a genuine look of confusion. You sigh, not wanting to elaborate. “The… daddy thing.” You cringe saying it. It’s been at least a month since Steve said it, but it still lingers in your mind all the time. His look of confusion lessens, but you can tell even more elaboration is still needed. “I don’t know how much guys share about that kind of stuff. I didn’t know if Bucky ever told you… about that.” Your foggy mind can’t find a tactful way to phrase Daddy Kink, but the look of realization dawns on his features. He licks his lips quickly before literally biting back a smile while he looks down. Your cheeks are absolutely burning in a blush right now. 

“Uhh,” he stutters and clears his throat. “He did not.” You let out an embarrassed groan and throw your face into your hands which draws a chuckle from him. 

“I thought for sure he had to have and you were screwing with me.” Your voice is muffled through your fingers, but still clear enough to understand. “Instead I just confess a kink for no reason.” Another groan from you and another chuckle from him. 

“Buck was a private guy. He didn’t share much about what went on behind closed doors.” Why did you open your mouth? Steve hadn’t brought it up. You could have continued your lives without him knowing and without tossing yourself into a pit of embarrassment. 

“I’m sorry,” you tell him, starting to melt your hands away from your face, but sinking down further into your chair. “You didn’t need to know that about me. I shouldn’t have said anything.” He’s still biting his lower lip, trying not to laugh at you and you’re not sure if you want to disintegrate or laugh along with him. 

“If it helps,” he starts, the sly smile on his lips tempting to turn into a seductive smirk. “Even though he didn’t tell me, it was pretty clear by the way you… reacted.” You can’t help it. It’s a tortured groan that comes out as you sink as low as you possibly can, butt sliding off the chair entirely, your lower back now supporting your weight. “Hey!” he calls to you, patting his palm against the wooden desk to cut through your groan. “It’s not that bad. Get back up here.” He’s still trying not to laugh. 

“Easy for you to say,” you mumble, but push yourself back up in your seat. “I need another drink.” You reach out to pour yourself another and Steve picks up his beer bottle. 

“You can just count it as another thing you and I have in common.” You stop pouring. He says it so simply, takes a swig of his beer so casually and yet there’s a glimmer in his eye that reflects the dirty place he sends your mind spiraling into. 

You thought he’d been teasing you, pushing your buttons. You never once thought it might be something he also liked. And if he didn’t know about your dirty little secret kink when he said it, had he said it for his own pleasure? Your stomach starts knotting inside of you and it’s getting uncomfortably warm. 

“That’s… good to know.” It’s not a good response, but your mind can’t come up with anything else. The tension between you is thick and light as a fucking marshmallow and you swear it tastes just as sweet. 

Neither of you speak for a time and neither of you look away. His eyes hold yours, dare you to make a move, to cross the line. You stare back, but barely seeing him as your mind runs wild imagining just how he would react if you called him Daddy and desperately trying to figure out how you can slip that into any future interactions. 

He can clearly see you’re daydreaming, but he still says nothing. He just watches as your eyes come and go, enjoying the way your tongue occasionally darts out to wet your lips and the flush that’s forming near your collarbone. You take a deep, slow breath to refocus yourself and calm your heart that you didn’t realize is pounding in your chest. 

He rests his fist under his chin, turns it so he can run his pinky finger over his bottom lip, making you wonder just how soft his lips would be and how roughly he’d press them to you. He looks as though he’s about to say something, but you’ll never know what because the buzzing of his phone vibrating on the desk breaks the spell. He looks at it and then regretfully back at you. 

“I have to take this,” he admits. You wave your hand and shake your head a little too wildly. 

“Go, go!” He swipes the phone from the desk and has it to his ear before he’s out of his chair and leaving the room. Everything comes crashing back down on you and the lustful heat just feels like sticky sweat now. 

You swallow your drink in one gulp and retire to your room before he gets back. 

— 

Your hands are buried in the dirt, trying to dig a hole deep enough for the damned blueberry bush, but every time you think you’ve found the right spot, you hit giant rocks. Who the hell decided giant rocks should litter the ground where you would unexpectedly be trying to plant things? _Try to do some good in the world_ you told yourself. _It’ll be fun_ you told yourself. 

“You better fucking grow after this ordeal,” you hiss at the bush. Although it wasn’t even a bush yet. It’s a stem and roots that’ll take over a year to produce berries. Stupid damn garden. 

You’d started it two years ago. There was a patch of land in back of your apartment building that was getting overgrown and you were at the point where you needed a project, something to do. Growing some vegetables and herbs and flowers seemed like a good idea. Get into the dirt with your hands and make something. Grow something. Share something. Of course, you had no idea what in the hell you were doing so it took over a year for you to produce a vegetable that was larger than your finger. It’s a pain in the ass and plants are finicky as fuck, but despite your moaning and complaining, it works. It feels good. 

“If you don’t grow, I’m going to rip you apart with my hands and then find a chipper to run you through,” you threaten as you pick it up to gently place it in its hole. 

“I thought gardening was supposed to be soothing,” Steve’s voice comes from behind you. “Kind of like yoga or something.” You turn your head to pass him a glare. 

“Maybe intimidating plants is soothing to me.” You turn back to your bush and fill the hole in with dirt before pushing up off your knees and standing. “What are you doing here?” 

“What? Can’t visit my friend?” he teases. You take off your gardening gloves, hot hands feeling a rush of cool when they hit fresh air. You toss the gloves into your bag of tools on the ground and cock your hip out. 

“You never come see me in the garden unless it’s important or unless you want more cucumbers,” you call him out. “And seeing as how you just got a batch of cucumbers from me, I don’t think that’s what you’re here for.” You bring your hand to your forehead to shade your eyes so you can stop squinting at the setting sun and see him a little better. He’s leaning his shoulder up against the brick wall of the building, his hands in the pockets of his jeans. 

“I’ve got to cancel this weekend,” he says with a hint of regret. You can feel yourself start to deflate a little. “There’s an older gentleman in the support group who needs an escort upstate. I won’t be back until late Sunday.” 

“You _would_ abandon me for something noble,” you accuse in a teasing manner. Lowering your hand from your face, you take a few steps towards him. 

This weekend was your annual ice cream fest, as you affectionately called it. Once a year, you gather as much ice cream as you can both handle and devour it like children at a sleepover. It had originated from early on; a drunken night in which you needed consoling. Steve thought ice cream seemed the perfect thing to help you out and it kind of just stuck. It’s something you look forward to every year now. 

“When are you leaving?” you ask. 

“Tonight,” he says, confirming there’s no hope for salvaging the weekend. 

“Well, shit.” You manage to say it in a somewhat humorous tone, trying to make it clear you aren’t angry with him for canceling. 

“We can binge next weekend,” he offers quickly. A couple more steps and you find yourself next to him, leaning your back up against the same wall, using his shadow as a shield from the sun as the rough brick scratches into your shoulders. 

“I don’t know if that’s going to cut it, Rogers,” you tease. “My broken heart isn’t so easily mended.” He cracks a smile and leans in closer to you. 

“What ever can I do to make it up to you?” he inquires in jest. He slips his hands out of his pockets and pushes his shoulder off the wall, coming into your personal space. You make a show of biting your lip and him-hawing as you roll your eyes upwards to look at the sky in mock thought. “You tell me what you want and I’ll give it to you.” He’s using that tone suddenly; the dark and dirty one that threatens to undo you. He shifts so he’s in front of you, places each of his palms on the brick, one on each side of your waist. “Anything you want, babygirl.” 

Your eyes snap back to his and that lip bite you’ve been doing loses its falsity. Your pelvis inches off the wall, gravitating to him and causing you to actively pull it back. You’re so focused on your hips that you don’t catch your hand reaching out for him and taking hold of his sweater in the middle of his chest. You play it off with a laugh and unfurl your fingers free of the fabric, instead giving him a pat. 

“That’s just mean,” you chuckle. “Playing on a girl’s fantasy like that.” His lips tilt upwards and he leans ever so slightly into your touch when you don’t take it away immediately. 

“Well maybe one day we won’t be just playing with it.” You catch the look of longing in his eyes as your throat closes up and nearly chokes you on air. It’s taking everything you have not to melt into a fleshy puddle at his feet. You want to say yes, fucking beg him to make good on that, but you can barely breathe let alone speak. He reaches up with one hand and twists a small bundle of your stray hair around his fingers. “I miss you when I’m gone,” he says softly, the dirty tone gliding away and making way for something softer. 

“I miss you too.” Your voice is dry, a stark contrast to the way the skin on your throat is wet with sweat and heated with a blush. You swallow and try to speak a little more clearly, but he beats you to it. 

“We deserve to be happy too, you know.” It’s what he tells his support groups, the same line he’s been using for at least the last year and a half in order to help people move forward. And yet, it doesn’t sound rehearsed. You slip your hand from his chest up to his shoulder. 

“Do you really believe that?” There’s hesitation. A struggle. He sighs and it’s ragged. He twirls your hair a little more, distracted. 

“I’m trying to,” is his honest reply. It’s such an easy thing to tell other people, but to convince yourself when you were the ones fighting the battle, when you’re the ones who lost? The ones who got your best friends, your loved ones turned to ash? Not as easy to believe. “I _want_ to believe it.” He leans down, rests his forehead on yours. “I’m ready to try at least.” 

It’s hard to focus. The setting sun is beating down on half your face, heating your skin and nearly blinding one of your eyes. The twirl of his fingers pulls so gently on your hair that it could practically lull you to sleep. At some point your hand had slipped up towards the back of his neck and you can feel the ends of the hair on the nape of his neck on your fingertips. Your hand itches to slide up over his head and pull him down to you. But when you close your eyes, you see Bucky’s disappointed face reflecting back to you. 

“Do you think he’d want us to be happy?” you whisper. _Do you think he’d give his blessing for us to_ _fuck_ _?_ But no, that isn’t right. It’s more than that, isn’t it? It wouldn’t be a hookup. It wouldn’t be a one-time thing. It would be real. _Is that supposed to make it better?_ There’s a long pause before he answers. 

“Does it really matter anymore?” A bitter and defeated chuckle follows his words. He’s tired. You can see it in his eyes. Tired of worrying about right and wrong. Tired of wanting and not having. Tired of not letting himself be happy. He’s so close and you want to give in, want to pull him down and press your lips to his and tell him to hell with everyone and everything.But you just can’t shake Bucky’s image from your mind. 

“Steve,” you pause, voice cracking. “I-” 

“I know,” he cuts you off gently and sighs pulling his head off of yours. He’s disappointed, but not surprised. “But if and when you’re ready, just know I’m here.” As he steps back, he lets his hand graze over your hip and it leaves a tingle in its wake. He leaves you with a smile and a promise to be back soon and it takes you quite a few minutes to get yourself off that brick wall and back to work. 

Tears silently fall down your face tonight, every molecule of you feeling torn. He’d broached the line, held out his hand and offered for you to go with him. If you’re honest, you never actually thought the day would come. Sure, you’d dreamed of it, yearned for it, but it was always so unreachable. And now he’d just… offered it to you. Yet he did it in such a way that you could ignore it. You could pretend it never happened and just stay as you are. The question is; do you want to? 

— 

It’s weeks later and you’ve barely seen him. A mixture of work, personal responsibilities, and exhaustion making your schedules clash against each other. There’s been a couple phone calls, a few texts, and brief meetings with fellow teammates, but no one-on-one time appropriate to broach his proposal. 

It hasn’t stopped you from thinking about it, dreaming about it and then tearing yourself apart for doing so. Honestly though, your self-depreciation is starting to feel a little forced. There’s the smallest shift from feeling guilty for wanting Steve to feeling guilty for _not_ feeling guilty. It still leaves the black hole in your stomach in the morning, but it’s different. 

You’re shuffling papers around in the office because, yes, paperwork _does_ still matter, when Natasha comes in. You give her a smile as she sheds her jacket and comes to stand across from you, leaning her hands on the back of a chair. 

“Doing okay today?” she asks tentatively. You don’t even look up from the report you’re trying to read. 

“Yeah, but could someone teach Rocket some penmanship if he’s going to make notes on these?” It’s only partially a joke. You’re turning the paper in your hands and squinting your eyes trying to make sense of his chicken scratch. When you glance up, you expect to see a smile on her face, but there isn’t even a trace of one and her eyes are analyzing you. “Are _you_ okay?” you question back. 

“Yeah,” There’s a look of subtle surprise on her face with a simple raise of her eyebrows as she straightens up and crosses her arms over her chest. “I guess I’m still just tiptoeing around some things. I thought today would be hard for you.” Your brow knits together. Today? Why would today be hard? Hell, what is today? It’s Wednesday. It’s summertime. It’s… _Fuck._ Your face drops. “You forgot, didn’t you?” It’s gentle and nonjudgmental. “That’s actually good,” she tries to reassure. “Moving on and whatnot.” 

You throw your face into your hands, dropping the reports on the table. You’re honestly not sure what you’re feeling. You forgot your anniversary. _Your anniversary!_ You’d forgotten it plenty of times before and it wasn’t like it was your real anniversary either. You and Bucky had just picked a random date out of obligatory social construct after realizing you had no idea when you’d actually gotten together. After The Snap it hit you a little differently though with the last couple stinging you sharply and causing bad days. Not this year apparently. 

“I’m an awful girlfriend,” you groan through your palms. 

“Sweetie, I hate to break it to you,” Natasha offers softly, but with a small sense of humor hidden in her voice. “You’re not his girlfriend anymore.” 

You take a deep breath and it shakes. When you squeeze your eyes shut behind your hands, you can feel tears make their way through you. You use the heels of your palms to rub them away. She watches it hit you; the emotions, the guilt, the tearing apart and she walks around the table to put her hand on your shoulder. It’s a small touch but it’s friendly and grounding and it makes you feel more comfortable. 

“Maybe it’s time to let him go. Let them all go,” she suggests. “It’s been more than three years now.” Some days it doesn’t feel like it’s been that long. You bring your hands back to the papers on the table and pretend to watch them. “No one would blame you for moving on.” She gives your shoulder a squeeze before shifting away and leaning her lower back onto the table edge next to you. There’s a brief hesitation before she speaks again. “No one would judge you for who you moved on to either.” You look up sharply at her and she averts her eyes to the floor. 

“Are you implying something?” you sound a little angrier than you are. No one’s ever acknowledged this thing between you and Steve before, so the instinctive defense kicks in. 

“Look, it’s not like you two are subtle with the constant flirting.” She’s doing that thing she does where she’s giving you the answers straight, but her voice is soft. It works to help dissolve the anger. “Hell, there’s a bet going around on when you’ll finally hook up.” You’re not sure if you’re more embarrassed or humored by that piece of information. 

“Where’s Rocket’s bet at?” you ask, deciding to go with the humor. “I can’t let that little bastard win.” Natasha cracks a smile at you. 

“He’s running the betting pool so he actually wins it all if you _don’t_ hook up.” She chuckles as you groan and lean back in your chair. 

“Well shit,” you say. “I guess I _have_ to sleep with Steve now.” You both take a moment to laugh at the notion, letting any remaining tension about the conversation float away. When the smiles and the laughs settle, you give a small sigh. “I just feel like the worst person in the world,” you admit. “What kind of woman falls for the supposed love of her life’s best friend?” 

“There are worse things that a woman could do. Trust me.” Her words are true, but don’t do much to dull your pain. “It’s not fair to hold yourself to past commitments. We’ve gone through an unprecedented event. There’s not a rule book on what’s right and wrong here.” You peek up at her with a tilt of your head. 

“You sound like Steve at his support groups.” She squints her eyes and then cringes, bringing her shoulders up to her ears. 

“Oh god, I do, don’t I?” You both laugh again. “Alright, take out all the sentimental therapy bullshit,” she retracts with a smile as she drops her arms and pushes herself away from the table. “Just let yourself be happy.” She walks back around the table to grab her jacket off the chair. “Besides,” she adds before leaving. “Can’t let that raccoon win.” 


End file.
